


False Gods

by fancastik



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, if you like the idea of Nicky roasting Christopher Columbus you might like this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25444105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancastik/pseuds/fancastik
Summary: Nile has never been to Italy. When she tells Nicky this, his eyes light up like a kid on Christmas. The prospect of getting to show her around his country, the very town he grew up in, is enough to momentarily lift the weight of Booker’s absence.The trip is meant to be a break, a chance to put the events at Merrick behind them, and have a moment to breathe.No one expects Nicky to go missing.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 103
Kudos: 557





	1. Chapter 1

Nile has never been to Italy. When she tells Nicky this, his eyes light up like a kid on Christmas. The prospect of getting to show her around his country, the very town he grew up in, is enough to momentarily lift the weight of Booker’s absence. Watching him pour over travel guides, excitedly google pictures of basilicas, and talk about how much it’s grown since he’s been away, quickly becomes one of Nile’s favorite past times. Nicky is often reserved. He can sit in silence for hours on end, with a book in his lap, and a cup of tea at his side. In a lot of ways, he’s like the grandpa that Nile never got to know, if that grandpa was nearly a thousand years old and had the ability to kill her in seconds. But, when he talks about Italy, the love for his home, it’s with an energy that’s infectious; enough that even she begins to dream of the lush green hills, and the white capped waves of the harbor. 

The closer their trip gets, the more her excitement builds. Before joining the marines, Nile had never been outside of America. She’d never thought she would have the chance to travel, to see the world, unless it was through the eyes of American imperialism. Now, with every one of Nicky’s infectious tirades, she begins to see a whole new life before her. It leads her to do some Googling of her own one night. 

“Christopher Columbus is from Genoa?” she asks, as she’s going through a list of ‘top ten things to know about Genoa, Italy’. 

Nicky looks up from his most recent book, something that’s actually been written in this century, called ‘A Little Life’. “We do not claim him,” he states, matter-of-factly, before going back to his reading. 

“You can visit his house.” 

“There will be trees that would be more interesting than that place,” this time when Nicky speaks he doesn’t even look up from the book. There’s a clear distaste in his voice. So, he doesn’t love _everything_ about Genoa. Most of what she finds on Google tends to be tourist geared, the things Nicky wants to show her can’t be found on any website. There’s also far too much information about Christopher Columbus, which certainly isn’t a selling point. Nile can’t help but think they should hire Nicky to be their spokesman, they’d have triple the visitors they did now. 

“So where are we staying when we get there anyway? Did Copley find us a place?” They’re still technically meant to be hiding out, making sure that no one with ties to Merrick finds them. Copley’s been moving them to various safehouses, most of them localized to England, this is the first chance they’re getting to go outside of the UK. They won’t be in Italy for long, only for the same amount of time they’ve stayed in every other place, but Nicky’s looking forward to the move, nonetheless. 

Joe, who’s sitting on the plush couch in the living room, looks up from the soccer match he’d been watching. He calls over his shoulder at Nile and Nicky who are sitting at the dining table, “It’s another safehouse. Nicky has a place there though; he’s trying to convince Copley to let us stay there. Maybe you can try to explain to him why that’s a bad idea, since he _won’t listen to me_.” He raises his voice at the last bit, as if to emphasize his point, and maybe to get a rise out of the man who’s given up on reading and is now sitting back in his chair with his arms crossed. 

Nicky huffs, “What’s the point of going if we’re just going to be shoved into another place like this.” He gestures at the space around them, “I’m tired of modernity.” 

“You’re a snob, Nicolò. I’ve seen your place, it’s hardly better than Andy’s cave.” 

This has clearly been an ongoing fight between the two of them, because Nicky opens his mouth to argue and Joe cuts him off with, “Don’t bring up authenticity again. Last time we stayed there I fell through the floor; I doubt Nile cares that much about the cultural relevance of your structurally compromised home.” There’s no malice in his voice, just a joking tone with an undercurrent of seriousness. If Nile hadn’t been told, she would have never guessed that the two of them had killed each other multiple times. They seemed incapable of hurting each other’s feelings, let alone dueling to the death. 

“Don’t bash my cave,” Andy quips, coming out of her room, and moving to sit between Nile and Nicky at the table. She squeezes Nicky’s shoulder as she passes him. “I like your house Nicky, but Joe’s right. If anyone else has the information Copley has, then they might have the location of our hideouts. We have to be safe.” 

No one says anything about how Booker seems to have been left to his own devices, though they must be thinking it, because that empty look that’s been in their eyes since they left him standing on the Thames has returned. Nicky looks back down at his book, though Nile can tell from the way his eyes stay in one stationary spot that he’s not really reading it. She knows he blames himself for Booker’s banishment, he was the one that had proposed the hundred years. Joe had wanted more, but Nicky was the one who’d found a middle ground and stood by it. It was his idea, though, he doesn’t seem to like it any more than the rest of them do. 

She hopes the stay in his homeland will be good for him, no matter how brief. Because even though she hasn’t known him for long, she knows that she much prefers the Nicky that can spend hours talking about how the sun looks rising over the ocean, rather than the one who sits across from her now, sullen and silent. She hopes Italy will be good for all of them. And from the way it’s been explained to her, she almost believes this city stationed on the cliffside might actually be the balm they all need to help soothe the part of them that’s missing. 

* * *

Later that night, after Nile and Andy have gone to bed, Joe and Nicky find themselves curled up together on the couch. Joe sits with his back propped up against the arm, and Nicky sprawled out before him, his head resting on Joe’s chest. The TV’s still on and muted, it casts multicolored shadows across both their faces and makes the circles under their eyes look even darker.

It’s not the first time that they’ve done this, stayed up while the rest of the world slept. The events at Merrick seemed to have left an impact. Multiple times now, they’d woken each other up with nightmares. They lose each other again and again, or are kept in cages and unable to console the other. If Andy and Booker had been alone in their grief, they’re alone in their fear. Everything they believed in was built upon the idea of their fated meeting. They were meant to be together, like two sides of the same coin. Coming that close to losing each other, it had been a startling reminder that nothing was permanent. Not even their feeble immortality.

“Do you really trust Copley?” Nicky whispers into the dark. He says it so quietly that Joe’s not even sure if he was really meant to hear it.

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“I want to,” he twists his fingers anxiously in the throw blanket that’s spread across his lap, “Booker trusted him.”

“Booker used him to betray us,” Joe gripes, but even as he says it he knows that’s not the truth. Not really. Booker had made a selfish decision, one that landed Nicky and Joe in one of their worst nightmares, but he hadn’t meant to hurt them. Whatever he’d intended didn’t matter though, not to Joe, because Booker _had_ hurt them. There wasn’t a minute in his day that he didn’t think about how close they’d come to ending up like Quynh, trapped, meant to endure every torture Merrick and his team could think to throw at them, and never able to escape.

Going to the town where Nicky had been born was a risk. Out of all the places, they were going to the one they could be most easily traced. But when Nicky had proposed Genoa, and Copley had agreed, he’d smiled the first genuine smile Joe had seen from him in weeks. He watched Nicky talk with Nile about all the sights he was going to take her to, his eyes gleaming, and Joe knew it didn’t matter if it was dangerous or not. He’d do anything to keep Nicky looking the way he had in those brief moments. The nightmares would always lurk just outside their peripheral, but it would be worth it if it meant there were still small moments of joy.

“I wish we could go back to before,” Nicky mumbles, and Joe knows exactly what he means. Life was a lot simpler when their family was whole, and no one was trying to decipher the source of their immortality.

He sighs, it sits heavy in the space of the room, “I know, _habibi_.” He ducks his chin enough that he can press a kiss to the crown of Nicky’s head. The scent of him, like parsley and citrus, pushes the shadows that sit at the corner of his vision even further back. Merrick is dead, Booker will come back to them eventually, and Nicky is still here with him. They’re safe. For now, and that’s all he could ask for.

Eventually, they fall asleep on the couch. Andy finds them the next morning. Instead of waking them, she drapes the blanket that Nicky had kicked off at some point in the night back over them. The TV’s still on, playing some infomercial about a ‘new and inventive’ jewelry cleaner. The remote has also ended up on the floor, which doesn’t surprise her because Nicky’s always been a fitful sleeper. Quietly, she picks it up, turns off the tv, and then pads out of the room.

They sleep until noon, only stirring when Nile comes to use the ice machine without realizing they’re there.

* * *

They wait, they pack, and eventually they make it to Italy.

There’s no private jet this time, which upsets Joe and Nicky, they’d been looking forward to actually using the small TV. With Copley’s ties to Merrick gone, his funds have evaporated as well. Meaning he had to call in a few favors to some of his friends in the CIA. He’d gotten them tickets in economy, off the books, so no record of their names would be marked down. Then all they’d had to do was use the passports Booker had forged for them to get through security. It had all been a lot less eventful than Nile had thought it would be. One minute she’d been looking out at the overcast sky of London, and the next she was stepping off the plane in Italy.

The airport sits right on the harbor. She can see ships at the docks, steel mammoths that crowd up the shore. If she looks closely enough though, she can see what it might have looked like in Nicky’s age. An open expanse of rocky beach nestled against the backdrop of green hills, and the patchwork of buildings that have been built up into the cliffside. It’s like something from a travel magazine, or from a model’s Instagram page.

She’s amazed at the sheer size of the place, how each of the peach toned buildings seem to stretch on for miles. Even from within the airport, standing before a wall of windows that looks out over the ocean, she can sense how large the country is. Nicky had told her Genoa was a metropolitan area now, a central hub of Italy’s economy, but every story he’d told her had also made it seem so small and intimate. She realized now that was just his perception. It is beautiful though; she can’t deny that.

Nicky’s watching her, she can see from the corner of her eye, how his lip curves in the faintest of smiles.

“What do you think?” He asks. They’re still by the windows, waiting for Copley to text when there’s a car ready for them. In the rush of people around them, their group are the only ones that are stationary. Joe’s standing beside Nicky, hands entwined between them. Andy’s beside Nile, the only one not facing the window, but keeping an eye on the crowd.

She’s hardly seen more than the airport, and the picturesque view that stretches before her. But she can tell this means a lot to Nicky. Maybe it’s because he’s so rarely open with her, or maybe it’s because he’s trusting her with a piece of himself, but she can’t help but feel like there’s more to the simple question than he’s letting on. Andy and Joe have been here before, she’s a fresh set of eyes.

“It’s beautiful, Nicky,” she says, looking up at him and delighting in the way his eyes gleam with noticeable pride, “Just like you said it would be.”

She watches as he studies the landscape before him, how his shoulders seem to lose some of the tension they’ve been carrying around for the last few days. It comforts something inside her to know that no matter how many years he’s lived, how many places he’s been, he still feels he has a place where he belongs. If Nicky can still find home here, even after so much time has passed, and so much has changed, maybe it means she won’t have to lose that piece of her either.

* * *

It isn’t until they’re leaving that she notices the name of the airport.

“I thought you guys didn’t claim him,” she teases, pointing up at an archway that reads ‘ _Genoa Cristoforo Colombo Airport _’ in big block letters.__

__Nicky glares up at the archway as they pass under it, and grumbles, “ _Cazzo di Columbus._ ”_ _

__She’s still learning Italian, but it doesn’t take much to understand him._ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read the first chapter, and left so many kind comments! I'm hoping to update this fic (along with my other fic, The Family We Keep) once a week! 
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for (kinda) graphic violence, it's just canon typical stuff though.

Watching Nicky cook is, in its own way, a religious experience.

He moves around the kitchen as fluidly as he does during battle; a knife in hand and a dishtowel slung over his shoulder. The way in which his hair falls across his forehead, the press of his lips together as he focuses on perfectly executing each stir, whisk or flip of a spatula, Joe could think of no better form of heaven. He watches as Nicky dices a tomato, how the muscles of his back shift under his navy-blue shirt at the movement, and tries to ignore every sinful thought that enters his mind.

The safehouse here is small, the kitchen little more than a square nook shoved in the corner by the front door, tucked beneath the staircase that leads to the bedrooms above them. There’s room for Nicky, the plethora of groceries around him, and Joe who sits in a stool by the counter. He’s waiting for the moment when Nicky shoos him away, needing more space to create whatever artisanal delight he’s trying to impress Nile with. Usually, he enlists Joe’s help in cooking, but tonight he’s working on a recipe he’s yet to disclose.

It seems to be going well so far, one half of the meal is close to done, some sort of chicken stuffed with pesto. It’s sitting in the oven to keep warm while he works with the ingredients before him now. Nearly every dish in the kitchen has been utilized. They’re all piled high in the sink and spilling across what little counter space he has left. From the outside, it looks like madness. But Joe knows that Nicky’s not the sort to focus on whatever mess he’s left behind, his eye has always been drawn toward what comes next.

The radio, that sits on the ledge above the sink, is turned on and playing a station of classic Italian songs. Classic in the sense that they came from the 1980’s and are not popular with the kids of today. As Nicky works, with the precision focus Joe’s seen him exhibit countless times before, he begins to sing. It’s a talent that not many people know he possesses, but Joe is familiar with the soft croon of his voice, the melodic sound of it as the words pour smoothly from his lips. If it were possible for him to fall any more maddeningly in love with Nicky, this would be the moment it’d happen. This tiny kitchen in the heart of Nicky’s hometown, surrounded by the smell of basil, and watching the man wield a kitchen knife like it’s the sword he’d cut into Joe with a thousand times before.

There’s a string of affections that are building up within him, one’s he wants to say just so that they will be heard, but he doesn’t want to pull Nicky’s focus away, not quite yet. So, he waits, and he watches, studying the way Nicky’s bicep flexes with each slice of the knife. If he’d had his sketchbook with him he would be scribbling furiously, working to immortalize this moment. He’d date it, ‘2020, Nicolò in the Kitchen’, just so he’d have something to compare to the many similar works he kept hidden in a far corner of Andy’s cave.

“I _can_ see you, you know.” Nicky says suddenly, the note he’d been singing dying away as he turned to meet Joe’s awed gaze.

“I wasn’t hiding.”

“That’s precisely the issue. You are very distracting,” his hand that’s holding the knife stills, suspended in the air.

“How am I distracting you? I’m just sitting here,” Joe smirks, sure that his eyes must be glinting in the same way the blade of the knife was.

It’s a challenge, a thrown gauntlet of sorts, one that Nicky rises to accept easily. He abandons the tomatoes, lays the knife down on the cutting board, and then comes to stand before Joe, slotting perfectly between his spread thighs.

“You stare too much.”

“It’s hard not to. Everything you do is art,” he’s looking up at Nicky like he’s hung the stars. His hands find their way to Nicky’s hips, thumbs sliding just underneath the fabric of his shirt, so they can rest against bare skin.

Nicky rolls his eyes, and then leans down to press the barest of kisses against Joe’s lips. It’s so light that he only gets the faintest taste of the man before he’s pulling away again. “You are insufferable.”

“You’re a vision.”

This time, when Nicky leans back down, he really does kiss him; hard. It’s reminds him of zip ties cutting into his skin, hands gripping his shoulders, the thundering panic that beat quick in his heart. He shoves past that, forces himself to focus on the present and the feel of Nicky against him. He will not let his love be marred by the same fear that has already taken sleep from him.

Nicky moans softly against his lips, the noise making Joe’s breath hitch, “The _focaccia_.” So that’s what he was making. Joe vaguely remembers the dish, like a forgotten memory. Bread baked with tomatoes and mozzarella on the top. It had been delicious, just like most of the things that Nicky made.

“You’re spoiling her you know,” Joe says, he doesn’t have to explain that he’s talking about Nile. All of this, the meal and the time that Nicky is pouring into it, has been done for her. She hasn’t known him long enough to understand that he’s saying thank you, but Joe can read the dinner for what it is. If it weren’t for Nile, they may never have gotten away from Merrick. “She’s going to start to think it’s like this all the time.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“No _amore mio_ , of course not,” He says, managing to lure Nicky in for one more quick kiss before the man pulls away from him and returns to the tomatoes. Joe yearns to follow him, to come up behind Nicky and snake his arms around the man’s waist. He wants to press up against Nicky’s back, hook his chin over his shoulder, and feel the way his body moves against him. It’s the modicum of self-control he has that prevents him from doing so. The sky outside was already turning the soft purple of twilight. Distracting Nicky further would mean they’d either end up with a very late dinner or having to order pizza, and it would be rude to deprive Nile of Nicky’s cooking.

So, he finds peace in just getting to watch, and Nicky doesn’t ask him to leave. It’s a silent agreement between the two of them that this is a moment just for them, amidst the crowded safehouse and the activity of the last two weeks, this small instant in time is theirs.

* * *

Joe watches as Nile bites into the focaccia, her features immediately melting into the familiar surprise that Joe’s seen in reaction to Nicky’s cooking many times before. Booker had had practically the same response the first time Nicky cooked for him. It was perhaps the first time since they’d met him that his scowl had morphed into something softer. Joe’s eaten the focaccia before, but it seems with each century the recipe only continues to improve. Nicky’s cooking never fails to impress.

“Nicky, this is _amazing_ ,” Nile gushes, much in the same way she had about the chicken before that. She takes another bite of the thin bread, a small moan escaping her. This isn’t the first time they’ve eaten a meal together, but it is the first where Nicky has actually taken his time in the kitchen. Since Merrick, everything they’ve cooked has been rushed, more time being spent training or keeping an eye over their shoulder. This is Nile’s first chance to really try anything made by them, and she’s clearly taken aback at the level of skill presented. Joe can’t help but think she shouldn’t be all that shocked, they were all centuries old, each of them with recipes that had been fine-tuned and perfected over the years.

Nicky, for all his humility, smiles in that faint way that Joe is so fond of and ducks his head. “Thank you, Nile. I’m glad you like it.”

“I love it.”

The complement is enough to bring a light blush to Nicky’s cheeks. Joe loves to whisper praises in Nicky’s ear just to see that same reaction, chasing after the way that it makes something warm alight in his chest.

“It’s delicious, like always Nicky,” Andy chimes up from beside Joe, cutting into her last few bites of pesto chicken. Joe’s already cleaned his plate, after spending so long watching the meal be made, his appetite had been insatiable.

“Thank you, boss. You should cook tomorrow night you know. I’m sure Nile would love to try your souvlaki.”

Andy laughed, “I doubt that.”

Nile looked up from her plate, “You can cook too?”

“Not as well as Joe and Nicky.”

Joe rolled his eyes, “That’s not true, boss,” he looked at Nile, “she’s being humble. Nicky wouldn’t even know what foods were poisonous if it weren’t for her.”

“Knowing what won’t kill you and actually knowing how to cook with them are two very different things.”

He supposes he can’t argue with that. In the early days, on nights that he and Nicky had been too famished to even bother lighting a fire to cook over, they’d eaten food that had tasted worse than anything he’s had since, but they’d never died from any of the foul-tasting stuff.

He leans back in his chair, arms crossing across his chest, and surveys the group before him. When they’re like this, it’s almost easy to ignore the empty seat between he and Andy. Nile’s holding all of their attention for the time being. She’s something new and shiny, still fascinated by all the small things they’d become dulled to. Everything, from the food they were eating, to the very safehouse itself, was fresh to her, and she was enthralled by all of it. Even in moments where she tried not to look impressed, she couldn’t hide the spark in her eye every time they talked about some historical event that was little more than a memory to them.

“I want to take Nile to San Lorenzo tomorrow,” Nicky says, once everyone’s plates have been cleaned and they’re all sitting in a comfortable silence.

Joe looks at him, “Just Nile?” He and Nicky both have their beliefs, and their own sacred places of worship, but he’s never held reservations about visiting cathedrals in the past. He wasn’t a vampire, they weren’t something he feared entering, and Nicky knew this.

Nicky, reading easily into his unspoken questions, was quick to answer, “Copley doesn’t want us to be together when we’re in town right? We’re less conspicuous if we are apart. I thought I could show her around. If that’s alright?”

His question is aimed at Nile herself, who nods, “Yeah, of course.”

Joe doesn’t own Nicky, and he doesn’t need to be involved in his every movement. So of course, he has no problem being separate from him for a day. But, there is a part of him that recoils at the thought. They’re safe here, Merrick is dead, and yet Joe can’t rid himself of the idea that if he looks away from Nicky for even a moment something will come and snatch him away. He ignores that part of him. It’s not his place to dictate Nicky’s actions.

Instead, he jokes, “What will Andy and I do?” his tone is light enough that Andy and Nicky can read it for what it is. Nile maybe less so.

“You could visit the museum,” Nicky shoots back, “Just try not to steal anything this time.”

Joe turns to Andy, “Do you think we’re still banned?”

Andy shrugs, “They did say it was a lifetime ban.”

“Yes, but our lifetime or theirs?”

* * *

“Be safe tomorrow,” he whispers in Arabic to Nicky, when they’re lying in bed that night. He’d thought the man had already been asleep, only speaking because he’d assume it would fall on deaf ears. But Nicky stirs, shifting until he’s turned around to look at Joe.

“Always,” he promises, “ _ya hayati_ , always.”

If Joe holds him a little tighter that night, if Nicky keeps a hand wrapped loosely around Joe’s wrist, they don’t linger on it for long. This worry, whatever it was, would pass. They couldn’t live in fear of losing each other forever, or they at least couldn’t let it overwhelm them like this.

He plays Nicky’s promise over and over in his head, until sleep eventually comes, and he drifts off into an uneasy unconsciousness.

* * *

Nile looks up at the ceiling of the cathedral stretching high above her. The frescoes and gold gilded arches of the space have held her attention since they first stepped inside. Out of all the places they’ve been today, this is the one central to most of the tourists in the area. But Nicky’s managed to find a time when it’s largely empty, just a small group of people sitting in the pews to their left. Nile has all the space she needs to marvel at the artistry that seems to be left in every aspect of the building.

“It didn’t always look like this,” Nicky said from where he was seated in the pew beside her, adjusting the baseball cap that was low on his head for about the hundredth time. Copley had wanted them to look as inconspicuous as possible, which meant Nicky’s usual form of disguise had to be replaced with one of Joe’s hats. He was wearing it in a normal fashion, brim facing the front, but he had it pulled down so low that it rested right above his eyebrows. Nile had been picking at him all day for it, telling him he looked just like every other dad in the vicinity.

“No? Was this here? When you were-…” she wasn’t sure how to articulate what she was asking, thankfully Nicky understood.

“Mortal?”

Nile nodded.

“No, it wasn’t _here_ exactly. It used to be outside the city, but they moved it. There was a fire a little after I-…,” he trailed off, but she understood him just as he had her, “it was rebuilt, in a different style. Every time I come back there’s something different.”

Nile wondered how that might feel. In Chicago, there had been a pizza place she loved to visit with her dad. After school, if he was home, they’d go there and hang out. They’d talk about whatever Nile was interested in at the time and her father would listen with rapt attention. A little after he died, the place was turned into a Starbucks. The hurt she’d felt then, she figured it might be similar to what Nicky was feeling now. Like a part of yourself had been lost, but to everyone else it had just become something new.

“What did it look like then?”

Nicky shrugged, “Emptier. Not as beautiful.” He turned his attention to the ceiling as well, studying the art that Nile had been enraptured by. “The money from that first war, it’s what paid for this.”

“The first crusade you mean?”

Nicky winced, “Yes. That.”

There was something in his features that made her want to prod for more, but she didn’t want to pick at old wounds. Nicky was sharing a piece of himself with her, perhaps one of the most intimate ones, and she didn’t want him to think she was ungrateful. This day, with Nicky, had been one of the best ones in a while. They’d spent the time going from marketplace to marketplace, walking paths behind the safe house that stretched beyond the city and into the wilderness. Nicky had shown her the space where he’d grown up, little more than a row of apartments now. He’d entertained her with stories about his childhood and the trouble he and his friends had gotten into. With each place they went, his smile seemed to widen, but the cathedral was different. Something about it seemed to weigh on him.

The group in the pews beside them had gotten up to leave, which meant it was just the two of them now. Alone, in the space that seemed to echo with history.

Nicky moved to fix his hat again, fingers running along the brim for a moment. She watched as he pulled it even lower, his face cast in shadows. When he looked at her, his eyes were damp with what looked suspiciously like tears. He asked, “I don’t mean to prod, but the necklace that you wear, is it because you believe?”

Nile wrapped her hand around the crucifix just above her chest, the metal cool in her grasp. Andy had told her there was no God, and a part of her feared that Nicky was here to do the same. She couldn’t help but think that it would hurt more coming from him. She nodded, “I do, yeah.”

Nicky smiled, “That’s good. You should. Your faith is yours, Nile. It’s not for anyone else to take.”

She couldn’t help the look of confusion that crossed her features. Is that what had happened to him? She didn’t know much about the crusades, or about Nicky’s role in them, but he had to have been pretty devout in his faith in order to fight in something called the holy wars. Joe must have had his faith as well, and nothing that Nile had been presented with so far had told her that either one of them had lost that.

“Do you and Joe still believe?” She asked, half afraid of what the answer might be.

“Of course, why shouldn’t we?” There was no hesitation in his answer. So then why did he look so sad to be in a place that should have brought him peace?

Nile looked back at the fresco, at the gold, at all the artifacts that surrounded them, hoping that one of them might provide an answer. All that she was met with was silence. Nicky took a deep breath beside her, then stood up suddenly.

“They close soon. We should leave.”

“Okay…”

The haunted look had vanished from his features, leaving behind the open expression he’d been wearing all day. He smiled at her, only with the barest hint of tightness at the corners and offered her a hand to help her stand.

As they were walking out of the cathedral, she cast one last look behind her, trying to picture how it might have looked all those years ago. Under all of the gothic architecture, and the renaissance-esque art, she could almost see it. Maybe that’s what Nicky had been coming here hoping to find, but maybe the place had been altered so much that he couldn’t even find himself in it.

At least Nile could still look at that Starbucks in Chicago and see the whispers of the old pizza parlor.

* * *

They’re halfway back to the safe house, walking along a long stretch of dirt road outside the city, when Nile hears the first shot. It’s quieter than she’s used to, none of the loud gunfire that had come from her military firearm, but still distinct enough that she knows what it is.

Nicky lets out a pained sound, half surprised, and she turns to find him clutching at his stomach, crimson spilling between his fingers.

“Nicky!” she cries out, just as he looks up at her with shock written plainly across his features.

The second shot hits him square between the eyes. His body crumples to the ground, hitting the dirt with a heavy thump. Nile has only a moment to stare at him in startled horror, before another shot rings out, coming somewhere from the trees around them.

A blinding white pain explodes at the back of her head, then nothing. Nile succumbs to the darkness and hopes it doesn’t take her too long to come back.

* * *

Nicky’s gone when she wakes up. There’s a patch of blood in the dirt where he’d been, still wet. The sun had been close to setting when they’d been ambushed, and now it was dark enough that the blood looked almost black. It gleamed in the night, like something dangerous.

Next to the blood, lies a faded blue baseball cap, abandoned in the middle of the road, crimson coating the brim. The man who’d been wearing it is nowhere to be found.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I just wanted to say a huge thank you for everyone who commented and left kudos on the last chapter. Your support is always appreciated and i'm glad you guys are enjoying the story so far!! (some of you, sorry to everyone who's still mad at me for hurting Nicky :/)
> 
> Warning for graphic depictions of violence (flashback to Nicky and Joe's first meeting)

There’s lead smeared along his hand, a mark of the hours that he’s spent sitting here, scribbling away furiously at his sketchbook. He’s drawn the sun setting over the hills, the way the buildings looked in the golden glow. He’s drawn every corner of this small safe house, down to the cobwebs that have built between the bookshelf and the TV stand. His hand has begun to cramp, and he’s down to the last few pages of free space, but if he stops he’s afraid of where his mind might wonder.

The museum had been just as bland as he remembered it. Andy had made it a game of sorts, to see just how many historical inaccuracies they could find. However, when that wore out, there wasn’t much else to do. There was something about seeing centuries worth of artifacts, things he’d watched come into creation and then fade from memory, locked behind glass cases, that didn’t sit right with him. When Andy had come across one of her old hairbrushes, Joe had decided it would be best to leave, before they got another lifetime ban.

He’s just finishing up a detailed sketch of the armchair next to the couch, when the front door opens and Nile walks in.

"Hey," Joe greets her, putting the final touches on the fraying throw blanket that’s draped over the chair. "How was sightseeing?" He looks up just long enough to notice that she’s holding his baseball cap in her hands, the one he’d given to Nicky earlier that morning. Somehow, it doesn’t surprise him that Nicky had taken it off at some point, he’d complained about it from almost the moment Joe put it on his head.

“It’s too tight,” he’d griped, pulling at the brim, even as Joe was adjusting it for him.

“It wouldn’t be if you stopped pulling it down so low,” Joe had replied, brushing Nicky’s hair back from his forehead and tucking it just underneath the cap, pushing the hat back up as he did so.

“I look like a tourist.”

“A very cute tourist, who will blend in.”

Nicky frowned, “It looks better on you.”

“That’s just because I know how to wear it,” he leaned in, ducking just underneath the brim of the hat, to press a kiss to Nicky’s cheek, “and you look fine, _habibi_.”

In return for having to wear Joe’s hat, Nicky had made him wear one of his hoodies. It was black, and tight on his shoulders, but it smelled like Nicky, so he hadn’t protested too much. He was still wearing it now, the hood just resting halfway atop his head, as he craned his neck to get a better look at Nile. She hadn’t answered his question, seeming to be more interested in the tile at her feet.

“Where’s Nicky?” He asks, half expecting the man to walk in the door right behind her. Maybe they’d gotten more groceries, maybe he’d told Nile he didn’t need help carrying them in. Maybe he’d just wanted to enjoy the fresh air a little longer, and he’d given Nile the hat to hold because it had been annoying him.

Nile’s grip tightens on the cap, she’s refusing to meet his inquisitive gaze, “Joe…”

Joe ignores the cold feeling that’s settling in the pit of his stomach. He ignores the stain on the hat in Nile’s hands; it’s wine, Nicky had taken off the thing while they ate lunch and spilled his drink on it.

“Nile, _where’s_ Nicky?” He asks again, voice tinged with the same worry that’s been plaguing him for weeks now.

She looks up at him then, her eyes watering with unshed tears. Joe feels the moment his heart skips a beat, when he sees the blood that’s spattered on the collar of her shirt and smeared across her face.

“Nile-?” He can’t ask the question again; the words get stuck in his throat. He can only look at her pleadingly, practically begging her to correct the path that his thoughts have taken. Nicky promised he was going to be safe, he _promised_.

“It happened so fast-. I woke up, and…” she trails off, her hands are trembling around the cap, “He’s gone, Joe.”

 _Gone_.

The cold in his stomach spreads, like ice through his veins. He feels it race through him. It had been so warm this morning, with the early morning sun shining into their room, Nicky’s smile bright in his memory.

“What do you mean _gone_?”

“I don’t know. We were ambushed, on the way back. They-, whoever it was, shot him… and me. When I came back he wasn’t there.”

Joe sits up on the couch, tossing his sketchbook aside, “ _What_?”

It’s like his brain won’t let him process the information, just small pieces at a time that refuse to slot together. The blood on Nile, and on the hat, they’re too jarring and out of place in this space. There wasn’t meant to be any sort of fight here. This was a break, a small reprieve, before Copley found a mission for them and sent them back into the fray of things. Just a foot away from Nile was the dining table they’d all been gathered around last night.

Nile steps toward him, stopping just before the couch, and holds out the hat. This close, Joe can see the stains better. He can see just how dark they are against the fabric. A shuddering breath escapes him as he reaches up to take the cap from Nile. Something about the feel of it in his hands, being able to run his fingers along the polyester in the same way he had that morning, it manages to slot all the pieces together for him.

“Where?”

“What?”

“Where did this happen?”

“Up the road.”

Joe nods, once, firm and takes a deep breath, “Show me.”

It’s taking all of his self-control to remain calm. His grip tightens around the hat, fingers digging into the fabric. Nile watches him, as if she’s waiting for more, but if he says anything else he feels like he’ll never be able to stop. Half of him feels like it’s about to explode, the other half is numb, and they’re both warring for control. He tries to focus on the numb half, leaning into the comfort it provides and holding on to the feeble hope that this is all some cruel prank.

He can’t lose Nicky. Not again. Not this soon.

* * *

Frankly, Nicky is tired of getting shot in the head. It’s becoming far too common an occurrence. He always comes back with the worst headache, and the lingering taste of gun metal in the back of his throat. The feeling of bullets being pushed from his brain isn’t a pleasant one either. A part of him yearns for the days of crossbows, only because an arrow was a lot less of a hassle.

He hears, rather than sees, the bullet that had been in his head only seconds before. It clatters against the metal floor beneath him. The ground is rumbling in a way that tells him he’s in a vehicle. He can vaguely remember hands that had lifted him and thrown him into the car, before his body had been his to control. It’s prior experience that has him keeping his eyes closed, knowledge that people will say a lot more when they think he’s still unconscious. From his position on the floor of whatever vehicle this is, hands tied behind his back, and ankles bound with rope, he can gauge that whoever’s taken him has some idea of who he is. They at least knew that if they shot him, he was likely to come back.

Annoyance is biting at him sharply, and an undercurrent of worry as he thinks about how he’d ended up here. Nile had been with him. Did they take her too? She’s capable in a fight, just as strong as the rest of them. He knows this, but he can’t help the flash of panic that shoots through him at the idea of her being here as well. He’s been kidnapped before. In his line of work, it was more common than you’d think, but she was new.

Genova was supposed to be a break. He’d let himself get too comfortable. Now Nile might have to pay the price for his own incompetence.

“Holy shit,” someone says from above him. The astonishment was clear in their voice. “he’s _actually_ healing.”

“Of course he is, did you think Henry was lying?” Another voice replies, this one from further away. The driver, he assumes.

“No. But actually seeing it? This is crazy.”

‘ _Glad I could entertain you_ ,’ Nicky thinks. There’s a coppery taste at the back of his throat, mixing with the gunpowder. Part of him wants to spit it out, just to get rid of the blood and metal mixture. The urge to cough is something that he has to swallow down. It’s tampered only by his focus on what’s going on around him.

“You think it hurts?” The guy above him asks. Nicky hears him kick at the bullet; it goes clattering across the metal floor of what he’s beginning to think is a van. He feels the toe of the guy’s shoe just barely brush against his forehead.

‘ _Wait until you get shot in the head, and you’ll find out_.’

“I don’t know! Will you stop prodding at him? Just keep an eye on him and leave him alone.”

Nicky doesn’t tend to side with his kidnappers, but he finds himself agreeing with the driver now. The guy above him has leaned down to begin poking at his side, which is demeaning in so many ways. He finds himself missing Copley’s guards; at least they had been civil enough to wait until he was conscious before they began manhandling him.

Usually, he can remain calm in situations like these. Patience is a virtue, and it’s one he’s practically mastered. But something about how this guy’s treating him, like he’s a zoo animal, makes his heartbeat tic up a notch. He’s learned recently that he doesn’t much like the idea of becoming a science experiment. The fear had always sat at the back of his mind, and then that fear had become a reality. Strapped down, cut into, a needle pressing deep inside him, they’re memories that have jerked him awake at night. Even worse, they’re memories that have plagued Yusuf as well. He hates that this might just be adding more fuel to the fire. He’d promised Yusuf he would be safe, swore it to him in a language meant just for the two of them. He wasn’t a man prone to breaking promises, especially ones that he’d made to the love of his life.

Slowly, he begins to test the strength of the rope that’s binding his wrists. The rough fibers bite at his exposed skin as he pushes against them. In their haste to get him into the van the knots had been tied quickly. He has just enough room to slide his hand out if he snaps one of his wrists. From there, grabbing the guy above him would be easy enough, especially if he kept poking at Nicky the way he was. One quick motion and this guy would be down, which should only leave the driver. Nicky’s fairly confident that Nile isn’t here. She’s not beside him, and it’s only him that these guys seem to be concerned with. With her removed from the equation, there’s no one’s safety, other than his own, that he has to be aware of. He may not even have to kill these guys, knocking them out seems fairly plausible. This is turning out to be one of his less eventful kidnappings, which is fine by him. The faster he gets out of here, the quicker he can return to Yusuf and reassure him everything is alright.

‘ _Don’t worry, my love_ ,’ he thinks, still half-hoping that their immortality would include the added-on perk of telepathy, ‘ _I’ll be home soon_.’

He’s about to strike, body tensing for an attack, when the driver speaks up from the front.

“Hey,” he calls. “Don’t forget to use that thing.” Nicky isn’t going to stick around long enough to figure out what exactly this _thing_ is.

Nicky’s eyes snap open as he twists his wrists and goes to jerk free from the ropes. When he catches sight of the man above him, he hesitates for only a second. It’s a kid really, a teenager, who’s eyes go wide in surprise. He’s got something in his hands, a slender metal thing that Nicky’s seen before, and doesn’t want to become acquainted with again.

“ _Shit_!” the kid exclaims, his voice mixing with the audible _snap_ of Nicky’s wrist.

Pain shoots through him, familiar and fading just as fast as it appeared. He bites down the cry that threatens to escape him and pulls his hand free from the rope before the bone can reset. By the time he’s reaching for the kid, it’s already healed. He gets ahold of the kid’s shirt at the same time that he feels the sting of a needle against his neck. Like ice shooting through his veins, the drug takes hold immediately. His body goes limp.

“Why’d you wait so long?!” the driver screams from the front of the van. Nicky can’t even crane his neck up enough to get a visual of the man.

He knows this drug; he knows exactly how it sends darkness flooding in at the corners of his vision. He knows how quickly it spreads through him. He knows exactly where it was made and by who.

 _Merrick_.

It’s his last thought before everything goes black.

* * *

The blood on the road is the first thing that Joe sees. One small patch for Nile, and another for Nicky. The sight of it, like dark puddles in a sea of dirt and rock, is enough to make his stomach roll. It’s confirmation that this isn’t a prank. There is no joke here.

“ _No_ ,” he breathes, eyes glued to the mess at his feet. There are drag marks in the dirt, tire tracks beside that, a visual display of exactly what had happened to Nicky. He can’t seem to look away.

Andy, who they’d grabbed on their rush out of the safe house, is the first to approach Joe. She places a hand on his back, right between his shoulder blades. The contact isn’t enough. There’s a war waging within him, and it’s one that he seems destined never to win.

“Joe-”

“Why? _Why_ him?” He knows how mean it sounds, like he’d been wishing for Nile to be the one who was taken. In truth, he’s just tired of anybody being taken at all. This was Nicky’s _home_. He should have been safe here.

Andy sighs, it holds every bit of the weight that she’s been carrying for years now, “I don’t know Joe. But we’ll find out, okay? We’re going to find him.”

Nicky is strong, he’s brave, he’s capable. He’s fought his way out of countless situations like this. But the blood at Joe’s feet is proof that someone has hurt him. They hurt Nile. Immortality is just a game to those who live without it. They act like death is something frivolous, something to be toyed with. Why not shoot someone in the head if the wound would mean nothing? Joe has seen so much beauty in the world, but he’s also seen the ugliest parts of it as well. The savagery of humanity, it never fails to surprise him.

“They shot him. They _killed_ him.” He can see from the amount of blood that the wound was fatal, he doesn’t need to ask Nile what happened. The blood on the cap in his hands tells the whole story.

“We’ll call Copley. He has to have some leads.”

After every death, Joe’s first reaction is to look for Nicky. Like a tether in a storm, he’s always there. But there’s nothing now, nothing to console the frantic piece of him that wonders when the last time will be. If Nicky was dead, _really_ dead, Joe would have no idea. It’s this lone thought that deals the final blow.

He collapses, knees hitting the ground beneath him hard. A cloud of dirt rises, swirling around him before settling again. Andy follows right behind him, crouching down so she can keep her grip on him. Her hand grabs at his shoulder, like she’s trying to keep him grounded. Fingers press against his collarbone; he feels the strength of her grasp through the fabric of the hoodie he wears. Nicky’s hoodie. Nicky’s scent, strong in the land around him and the hoodie itself.

‘ _Nicky_ ,’ he pleads wordlessly, hoping that the man will hear him wherever he is, ‘ _where are you_?’

Once, they’d been able to communicate through dreams. He’d seen Nicolò before he’d even known his name. For weeks he saw his sword slicing through the air, a silent yell on his lips as he swung the blade, eyes empty of any emotion at all. Joe had thought it was his mission to kill Nicky, that it was Allah’s will for him to strike down the Frank who lived behind his eyelids. That belief had only been solidified when he made it to Jerusalem and saw the streets running red. That had been his first lesson in the brutal nature of humanity. He’d waded through blood, through bodies, feeling his stomach roil with each step, and in the middle of it all he’d found Nicolò. That sword, the one he knew as well as his own scimitar, limp at his side, and that same vacant look in his piercing grey eyes.

“ _Monster_ ,” he’d spat, already raising his own weapon. The first time he killed Nicolò, the man made no move to stop him.

It had taken him a long time to understand what that blank look had been, the emptiness of it. That first war, it had been Nicolò’s awakening as well. His first look into the eyes of death, when he understood he was the one who was carrying out the sentence. When he realized he’d been told to kill in the name of his God, and in doing so had been playing god himself. Even now, they could feel the remnants of those days. It had left a cut deep enough that even their immortality couldn’t heal it.

Years later, when the term ethnic cleansing came to fruition, Nicky had heard the word and froze. The blood draining from his face, that same blank look overtaking him. Together, they had learned what humanity was truly capable of. And together, they’d worked to unlearn everything they’d ever been taught. Trust was built like a bridge between them, and as their bond grew, the dreams began to fade. They truly met one another. Joe didn’t miss those days, but he often found himself missing the dreams, yearning for the intimate connection that he’d been granted.

If he had those dreams now, he’d know Nicky was still alive.

Nile comes to sit beside him, on the side that Andy hasn’t occupied. She also places a hand on his shoulder. Her phone’s in her other hand. He watches, half alert, as she finds Copley’s contact, and then raises the phone to her ear so she can call him.  
Joe feels useless. The tire tracks don’t go on long enough for them to follow, and the blood at his feet has already hardened into the dirt. He sits there, unmoving, and focuses on the feel of the baseball cap in his hands. It’s the only thing he has, other than the hoodie, to hold onto. He digs his fingers into the polyester, breathes in deeply so he can catch the faintest scent of citrus, that fills the air around them. When tears prick at the corners of his vision he blinks them away quickly. Nicky is fine. He’s an immortal warrior with the skills of a marksman. He’s _fine_.

Under the moon, surrounded by the trees and meadows that Nicky had grown up amongst, he forces himself to breathe. This is Nicky’s world. He knows this area better than any of them. Whoever has him, Joe knows they’ve severely underestimated him. Nicky is kind beyond belief, but Joe has never been one to doubt his love’s power.

Even still, he tries to find that connection again, the one they’d lost so long ago. He wills with everything that’s in him to deliver this message to his Nicolò:

‘We're coming _tesoro_. I promise, we’re coming.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting into it now!! (Sorry for any pain this chapter may have caused)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the late update! I started a new job, and school has started again for me, so I needed a second to adjust. I haven't abandoned this fic or anything though. I'm still on course to finish!

The sun is warm against Nicky’s skin. It’s a familiar heat that makes him feel like he’s sunk into molasses. On mornings like these, his movements are slowed, defenses lowered. Behind him, he can feel the weight of Joe against his back. In the safety of Joe’s arms, he lets himself sink further into the warmth, gives himself over to the soft blanket that’s wrapped around them and the plush mattress beneath him. This reprieve between missions, when the world narrows down to only this time and place, is when Nicky lets himself breathe. There is no threat that could touch him here.

“Morning,” Joe whispers against the back of Nicky’s neck, stubble scratching against the exposed skin there. Nicky can’t contain the shiver that thrills through him at the feel of Joe’s breath, his lips, against his neck. It’s an intimacy that he has spent lifetimes with, and yet he never quite gets used to the feeling. He hopes he never does.

“Good morning, _ya shamsy_ ,” Nicky replies, eyes still closed. He’s got one hand resting around Joe’s wrist, and he rubs his thumb absentmindedly across the pulse point there. He can feel when Joe smiles at the nickname. Nicky lives for that smile; he’d bask in the warmth of Joe’s happiness forever if the man allowed him to. Joe’s openness with his emotions, it was something that Nicky admired the most about him. He’d fallen in love with a man whose grin was like the sun and followed him ever since.

“ _My moon_ ,” Joe says, still smiling when he presses a kiss to Nicky’s neck. Once upon a time, they’d laid beneath the open sky like this. Nicky had stayed awake for hours, staring up at the stars. He’d been waiting for a sign, a message, some reason that he’d been given this repeat at life. There had been no answers, still weren’t really, but he’d stay up until sleep finally managed to take hold. It would be Joe who woke him up in the morning, at first with the noise he made as he packed up their campsite, and eventually with soft words whispered into Nicky’s ear. They’d found their rhythm in this. Nicky was the last to sleep, always cautious of the threats around them, and Joe was the first to rise. Nicky shielded Joe from danger, and Joe always had his back. From this routine they’d built a life, one that was more familiar to Nicky than the feel of Joe’s hand in his.

It’s why he’s able to notice when the warmth that’s surrounding him begins to disappear.

“Joe?” He questions, just as the heartbeat he’d been tracing against Joe’s skin fades away. Nicky goes to turn his head, only to find that he can’t move at all. “Y-Yusuf? What’s going on?”

“Don’t worry, my love,” Joe promises, just as Nicky loses the feel of the man’s arm around his waist. The world is falling away in pieces, and every time that he tries to keep his grip on something it escapes him. Nicky isn’t prone to fear, at least not in a way that manifests outwardly, but he can’t help the sudden panic that seizes him. Disoriented and confused, he feels as his heartbeat begins to quicken in his chest.

“What is this?” He asks again, trying desperately to move. He needs to see Joe, to grab hold of him and know that he’s okay, but his body refuses to obey. He’s paralyzed, and no amount of struggling will allow him to move.

“It’s okay,” Joe assures, “I will not leave you.”

Nicky can’t help the frightened sob that escapes him when Joe’s voice begins to fade; he’s cold, his back exposed. “Yusuf, _please_.”

“We’re coming _tesoro_. I promise, we’re coming.”

It’s the last thing Joe says, before Nicky loses him entirely.

* * *

James Copley is a smart man, there’s no denying that. He’d done what many others had tried and failed to do, solved the mystery of the immortals and managed to piece together a timeline that spanned back decades. He was someone who was adept at research, skilled in uncovering secrets that Joe and the others had tried to bury. But, that did not mean that he possessed _all_ of the answers. It seemed that there were some questions that not even Copley himself could answer.  


“What do you mean, _you don’t know_?” Joe asked, annoyance trickling into his voice. He’d been sitting in silence the whole time that Nile recounted the events that had led to Nicky’s abduction, watching as Copley absorbed everything she was telling him. He’d rushed over as soon as they’d called him, within the hour he was at the safehouse. Joe had spent that hour pacing restlessly before finally moving to the kitchen sink, where he got to work scrubbing away all the lead that was still smeared across his skin. He’d washed his hands until they bled, and even then continued, making sure that the skin couldn’t heal where he’d rubbed it raw, relishing in the feeling of the soap stinging at open wounds. Andy had eventually pulled him away from the sink, forcing him to sit down, and keeping him there even as every part of him screamed to move. The thought of Nicky being hurt, while he sat there and did nothing, was enough to eat away at him. His only comfort was that Copley might have the answers; he’d been monitoring anyone who might have known of their existence, if anyone knew what had happened to Nicky it would be him. And yet, here Copley stood, dumbstruck and admitting that he had no clue.  


“There’s no one on our radar located here, that’s one of the reasons I agreed to let you guys hide out here for a bit.”  


Andy had tried to still him, but his leg had been bouncing anxiously the entire time he’d sat on the couch; now the movement had spread to his hand as he tapped it against his knee. “Well, _clearly, someone_ is here. You don’t have any leads?”  


“None. You should have been safe here.”  


_Safe_.  


Joe can’t do it anymore. He can’t sit here and try to quell down the wave of emotions that’s swelling within him. He brushes away Andy’s hand that had been resting on his shoulder and stands abruptly.  


“Joe-” Andy calls, but he waves her away.  


“I just- I need some air.” He feels very close to throwing up, choking on his own emotions to the point that there’s nothing else to focus on.  


He can feel everyone watching him as he crosses the living room and goes out the back door. Here, in the safe house nestled in the hillside, he has a view of the town below him. Nicky had brought him out here just last night, they’d leaned on the railing that circled the patio area and taken in the view. Nicky’s head resting on Joe’s shoulder, his arm around Joe’s waist, they’d stood in silence and listened to the noise around them. They were far enough in the countryside that the only sounds were insects buzzing, and the scuffle of various animals in the woods that surrounded them.  


“This is nice,” Joe had whispered into the night, quiet enough that Nicky had to lift his head slightly to hear him.  


Nicky had hummed in agreement. He pressed a kiss to Joe’s shoulder, before laying his head back down.  


Standing here now, under the same cloudless night sky they’d been granted last night, it makes Nicky’s absence all the more obvious. Joe leans heavily on the railing before him and lets out a deep breath. There’s a lump at the back of his throat that he can’t quite seem to swallow down. When tears sting at the corner of his vision, he quickly blinks them away.  


A few months ago, he and Nicky had been in Morocco. In the days before Andy and Booker had arrived, Joe had shown Nicky around Marrakesh with the same enthusiasm that Nicky had possessed since they stepped off the plane here in Genoa. Marrakesh wasn’t his hometown; he’d been born in a seaside town called Tangier, but he’d accompanied his father on a few trips into the fledgling city when he was a child. Back then, his father had held his hand and guided him through the streets, and Joe had done the same for Nicky. They’d eaten everything from Harira to Méchoui, toured every art museum that they passed, and Nicky had even bought them matching shirts from a vendor just outside the Ibn Yusuf mosque. Joe hadn’t been inside the mosque since he was eight, and it had grown significantly since then. Nicky had waited outside while Joe went to have a look at how much the architecture had changed, non-muslims weren’t allowed in many of the mosques in Morocco; when Joe came back out, there Nicky had stood, two shirts in his hands and an adorable smile on his lips.  


While Nile had gotten today with Nicky, Joe had been looking forward to the moment when he’d get to tour Genoa with him. He would have waited outside the cathedral, searching for his own souvenir to surprise the man with. He would have let Nicky pull him around the town and point out all the remnants of his childhood. It was a ritual almost, for them to visit each other’s hometowns every so often, just to remind themselves where they came from, and where they’d ended up. Now, Nicky was missing, and Joe wanted nothing more than to find him and get out of this city, put as much distance between them and Genoa as he could.  


He hears the door open and close behind him and turns to find Nile looking at him with a cautious gaze.  


“Are you okay?” she asks, leaning against the railing beside him.  


Joe scoffs, it’s a noise choked with emotion. “You were the one shot in the head. How are you?”  


Nile shrugs, “I’ve got a headache.”  


When Joe laughs it sounds far too forced and lacks any of its usual airiness. There’s still blood crusted at the back of Nile’s head, though she’s cleaned away the mess that had been on her forehead, and Joe can’t seem to pull his gaze away from it. He’d left the baseball cap back inside, sitting on the coffee table, because just the sight of it was making him sick. Nile was the walking reminder that he couldn’t escape this nightmare.  


Joe leans heavier on the railing; it creaks under his weight. Nile shifts closer to him, placing a hand on his back and rubbing in soothing circles. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and he doesn’t move to fill the silence like he normally would. Joe, who is hardly ever short on words, has now found himself at a loss for them. Even if he wanted to say something, the lump that had lodged itself in his throat wouldn’t allow more than a few syllables.  


He feels Nile shift beside him once more, and then her head is resting against his shoulder, the hand on his back still making clockwise movements.  
“I’m sorry,” she says into the night.  


He assumes he must have misheard her. “Sorry? For what?”  


“I should have been paying more attention.”  


Joe has heard a lot of ludicrous things in his life, but this has to be one of the top ten. He pulls away from her, enough that he can turn to look at her. “What?”  


“We got too comfortable. It was nice, just pretending that…I was normal.”  


The frown that twists its way onto his features is insistent, it pulls down at the corners of his lips sharply. He’s heard almost every form of self-pity there was, being stuck with Nicky while he processed his Catholic guilt had been all that he’d ever need in a lifetime. Nile feeling like this though, that was something he wouldn’t stand. The girl had proven herself to be one of the kindest, and most skilled people he’d ever met. She’d given Andy a run for her money, and that was a talent that few people possessed.  


“No,” he persists, forcing words out around the emotion that’s been steadily choking him since this began, “No. This isn’t your fault, Nile. Don’t let yourself think that. Nicky’s smart, _you’re_ smart, but neither of you were expecting anything like this.”  


“Maybe we should have-”  


“What good are ‘maybes’ going to do? Look, if Nicky were here he’d tell you the same thing. This isn’t on you.”  


Nile pressed her lips together, squared her shoulders in a way that told Joe he should prepare for a fight. She was going to feel how she felt, that much was clear. He couldn’t help but admire her, and also feel a twinge of hurt. There was so much of Nicky in her gaze; the way she was completely undeterred by his words, how she held steadfast to her logic. They shared a stubbornness that he’d only seen in the two of them. Allah was funny in that way, bringing these two people into his life that shared just as many similarities as they did differences.  


“I know how much he means to you-”  


“Nile-” he sighs, only for her to quickly cut back in.  


“So, I’m sorry, Joe. We’re going to get him back.”  


Nicky is always so absolute in his statements, and here came Nile with that same steady assuredness. She left no room for argument, and it wasn’t a fight he wanted to start to begin with. She was right, she had to be. They’d get Nicky back.  


Joe drew in a deep breath, swallowed around the lump in his throat, and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, we will.”

* * *

Nicky wakes with a choked gasp dying in his throat. He goes to jolt upward, but his wrists catch against something, and metal bites into his exposed skin. He’s cold. Shivering, to the point that he can feel the ache of the chill deep in his bones. A quick pull at his ankles tells him his feet have also been restrained, and he can feel a strap tight across his chest. There’s something metal beneath him, it seeps away what little warmth he’d had left in him.  


When he goes to open his eyes, he’s met with harsh light that has him wincing. His vision is blurry. Everything, from the noise around him to the feeling in his body, makes him feel like he’s trapped underwater. His reflexes and reactions slowed down past the point of uselessness.  


“He’s awake,” Someone says, voice garbled. His head pounds at their words, like they’re speaking too loudly. At the same time, they sound so far away.  


The groan that escapes him is something he can’t bite back in time. His head feels like it’s about to split into two, like someone’s taken a stake and is driving it through his skull.  


“Are you sure he’s okay?” the same voice asks, “He looks like he’s hurt. I thought he was supposed to heal.”  


“The idiots who took him gave him a double dose. He’ll be fine.” This new voice is one he knows. The familiarity of it prods at him, but he can’t think about it for too long because his head pounds violently enough that he feels like he’s going to vomit.  


Nicky yearns, more than anything, for the safety of the dream he’d just been pulled from. He wants Joe’s arms around him, Joe’s voice promising him that everything’s going to be okay. He can almost feel how the man’s hands would thread through his hair, soothe away at the tight spot at the crown of Nicky’s head. If he could, he’d ask for another dose of whatever they’d given him. Unconsciousness was preferable to this pain.  


“He _really_ doesn’t look good,” the first voice said. Nicky was surprised to find that they actually sounded worried.  


“Then stop looking at him! If it kills him, he’ll just come back in a minute.”  


Is he dying? Nicky’s felt death before, and it hadn’t ever been like this. Once, Joe had killed him by choking him until the air had been squeezed from his lungs. That had been the closest to this feeling, but it lacked any of the intimacy that moment had. He closes his eyes against the bright light that refuses to solidify into any distinguishable object and tries to remember that moment. Remembering Joe killing him, because it would be better than enduring this slow death.  


He can remember how Joe had been backlit by the sun, bright enough that it looked like he’d been gifted with a golden halo. Nicky had been enchanted by the deep brown of his eyes, the golden specks he could find in them when Joe got close enough. He could feel Joe’s breath hot on his cheek as he growled out something in the tongue that Nicky had yet to learn. He could almost feel Joe’s hands around his neck. That had been the hardest thing to forget, even years later. His thumbs had pressed right into the hollow of Nicky’s throat, and dug down until all Nicky could do was open his mouth in a silent cry. It had been one of his more brutal deaths, and in turn he’d strangled Joe the next night, holding him in a headlock until his body went limp.  


It wasn’t a memory he dwelled on often, because it wasn’t at all who his Yusuf was. But now, stuck between staring up at the nothingness before him, and finding solace in one of his least favorite memories, Nicky reached for the comfortable familiarity of his love. After all, it had been in that moment, in the seconds right before his life left him, that Nicky had realized Joe had a spattering of freckles dotting his cheeks and nose. It had been the first moment he’d felt the stirrings of _something_ low in his gut.  


“I think he’s dead!” the voice cried.  


Nicky remembered hands around his throat, golden speckled eyes, Yusuf’s throaty growl, the freckles that dotted skin like constellations, and then he remembered nothing at all.

* * *

Nile manages to coax Joe back inside. She wraps a hand around his wrist and then pulls him until he gives up resisting. It was beginning to get chilly outside anyway, not even Nicky’s hoodie was able to keep out the cold.  


“You okay, Joe?” Andy asks once he’s made his way back over to the couch. Copley’s sitting across from him in a chair he’s pulled from the dining table. Nile opts to sit on the arm of the couch beside him. He’s sandwiched between her and Andy, and he knows they’re trying to support him, but he can’t help but feel like they’re suffocating him.  


“I’m fine, boss.”  


He doesn’t mention the headache that’s beginning to form at the back of his head, a dull throb that steadily grows throughout the night.  


Copley’s got his laptop and a spread of files scattered across the coffee table. It’s like a portable version of his board of crazy. Joe thinks there might be even more photos here than there had been before, including a whole new stack of documents that Joe places as Nicky’s transcript from his third time in college back in the eighties. Nicky had wanted to go back to get his medical degree. Joe had tagged along just to get a bachelor’s in philosophy, just for the fun of it, he’d ended up double majoring in that and art. During finals week, he’d help Nicky study until the early hours of morning. They’d hung out in the library, gone to concerts held on campus, lounged on the lawn and lived in blissful normalcy for a few years. Soon after they’d graduated, Andy had shown up with a mission for them, and they’d jumped right back into the fray of things.  


“What’s all this?” Joe asks, as he pulls his attention away from the transcript, and to the man sitting across from him.  


“Leads,” Copley replies, “Nicky’s past missions, all the documents I could collect on him, somewhere in here there’s got to be some hint of where he is.”  


“Well then,” Joe grabs a file and pulls it toward him, opening it to a picture of Nicky in his WWll uniform, the red cross medical band clear around his bicep. “Let’s get to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who's read this far. I appreciate all of the support and I hope that everyone's enjoying the story so far!


	5. Chapter 5

The return after a death is different for all of them. Joe is usually prone to jolting awake, fear and worry clouding his gaze until he catches sight of Nicky. Andy is lethargic almost; Nicky is reminded of a cat, caught mid-stretch, when he watches her first draw in breath. For him, it’s always been a slow crawl, like he’s been removed from his body and he has to physically drag himself back into it. It’s the worst part for him, the struggle to regain control. The longer he takes to come back, the more he begins to panic, and usually only Joe’s presence can calm him. Joe’s worried frown, his hands on Nicky’s body, they’re what soothe him. Here, he has none of those familiar comforts.

He wakes to an empty room, harsh white light and the smell of formaldehyde; Joe is nowhere to be found, and Nicky can still taste the coppery tang of blood at the back of his throat. He’s lying on a metal table, handcuffed to rings that have been welded onto the surface. One quick pull at them tells him he’s not going anywhere, at least not anytime soon. The rings have clearly been a new addition. Whoever’s taken him has planned for this moment.

It doesn’t take him long to place where he is. Though he’s never stayed dead long enough to end up in a morgue, he’s familiar with their appearance. The mundanity of the space, it unsettles him; it’s clean, well-kept, and clearly in use judging by the body that lies on another gurney to Nicky’s left. He studies the way the man’s color has drained away; his lips gone purple and blue in the harsh light of the room. For a moment he wonders if that’s what he looks like. When death steals him away, does Nicky lose the hint of red in his cheeks, or does he come back too fast for the color to fade. He hopes it’s the latter, the thought of any of his family seeing him like _that_ , it makes his stomach churn uncomfortably.

The air of the room is cool, not dissimilar to that of Andy’s mine, it sends goosebumps rippling across Nicky’s skin and he can’t help the shiver that runs through him. The button-up and khaki shorts he’s wearing do little to combat the chill. It’s not as bad as it had been before though. Now, at least, he can open his eyes and not feel like his skull is about to split in two. He forces himself to look away from the corpse beside him. There’s a tray to his right, same gleaming metal as everything else in the space, with tools that he’s recently become acquainted with. Nicky can’t help the worry that spikes through him at the sight of them. He feels a needle pressing into his side, pushing deeper inside him even as he struggles to pull away, and nearly jolts at the phantom reminder. He will not become a lab rat again, once was more than enough.

“ _Cazzo_ ,” he murmurs under his breath, pulling once more at the cuffs around his wrists. They don’t budge. He’s at the wrong angle to snap his own wrist again, and even if he could the cuffs are too tight for him to pull his hand through. He’ll have to do what he does best, wait. It’s patience that has gotten Nicky this far in life. He’s the only one of the team who can sit for hours on end in a sniper’s nest, who can line up a shot, finger hovering over the trigger, until he’s got the perfect angle.

It was Quynh who’d taught him how to shoot. She’d taken his meager crossbow skills and shown him how to properly aim for a target. He doesn’t think about her often, the memories laced with pain now, and always a sharp reminder of how they’d abandoned her, but on the rare occurrence that he does it’s always in the context of their training. She pushed him in a way that he’d never been before, made him want to be better. Eventually, he’d traded in the crossbow for his very first gun. By that point, Quynh had been lost, and he’d felt her absence so sharply that it would keep him up at night. None of them slept much back then. With the gun, he’d been given a renewed purpose. He taught himself how to take apart and reassemble the weapon. He learned what made it work, and then he pushed himself to become the best marksman out of all of them. In a way, it was cathartic. He could go about his training, almost feeling Quynh’s presence beside him. He could imagine her sharp jabs at him, the teasing way she’d say his name when he failed spectacularly. And eventually, he could hear her praise. It was like he was finding a way to hold onto her. They all were, in their own little ways, making a space for her to return to. Even now, Andy still wore Quynh’s necklace like a promise.

It’s in the morgue, with a dead body beside him, and a sense of foreboding building within him, that he lets his mind wander to the girl with raven black hair and a knife’s edge smile. Quynh, who’d ruffled Nicky’s hair and flicked at his ear when she passed him; who had seen Nicky struggle in hand to hand combat and eased him into a form of battle he was more comfortable with. Nicky had never had any sisters, but he’d always thought that Quynh was the closest thing.

The wave of guilt that passes over him is expected. It’s impossible for him to think about the girl at the bottom of the sea without feeling like he’d failed her. A small part of him, a dark part that takes a lot to quell down, wonders if that’s what would happen to him. If he couldn’t get out of here, wherever _here_ was, would they leave him to his fate? Nicky hates himself for thinking it. He knows, logically, that they’ve never given up on Quynh. But the ocean is large, and there’s only so many times that Nicky can watch Joe drown before his heart can’t take anymore.

He lies on the cold table, and he lets his mind wonder just enough that he doesn’t have to agonize over the needles and the bone saw that are a mere foot away from him. As he lays there, he studies the ceiling above him. It’s here that he finally finds a flaw in the room’s sterile set up. The ceiling tiles are stained brown with water damage, dark splotches that slowly spread their way across the surface. A few panels are missing; he examines the exposed wiring, the innards of the building that aren’t typically meant to be seen, and he remembers, sharply, how Joe had looked tied down to a table similar to this one. He remembers Merrick’s scientist slicing Joe open, pulling out pieces of him, all while Joe tried his best to bite back screams. When Joe finally went limp, his chest stilling, it was perhaps the first of his deaths that Nicky had welcomed.

In the past few weeks, his dreams have been plagued with memories of that moment. He’d wake with a choked gasp, only Joe’s arms around him managing to still the frantic way he’d try to launch himself off the bed. He always reached for the handgun under his pillow, or the sword that wasn’t much further away than that, and it wasn’t until he felt the weight of Joe against his back that his movements would still.

“It’s okay, _habibi_ ,” Joe would whisper into the dark of the night, “I’m here.”

He’d taken to shifting in his sleep some nights, just so he was facing Joe and could keep an ear pressed to the man’s chest. And when Joe would wake from his own nightmares, a startled cry being ripped from him, Nicky was always there to soothe away the aftereffects of the dream. He’d press kisses to Joe’s lips, his cheek, to the whisper of a scar on the left side of his forehead – the remnant of his first life, of a rowdy childhood spent running around with his brothers. All the while, Joe would clutch at his arms like he was worried Nicky would fade away if he let go.

“ _Cuore mio_ , I have not left you,” Nicky would promise in between his gentle touches. Unlike Joe, he’d never been very skilled in the art of speaking. He couldn’t weave together declarations of his love like he was crafting a masterpiece, that had always been Joe’s greatest talent. But he tried, because he knew the best way to calm Joe was to let the man hear his voice. He spoke in Arabic, something familiar to Joe. Sometimes, he’d sing a melody that Joe’s mother had once sung to him; Joe always seemed to like that method the best. In the fading remnants of their terror, they would find sanctuary in each other, and the next time sleep took hold, neither one of them woke until sunlight spilled into the room.

It’s not like Nicky to lose focus, especially in a situation as serious as this, but he finds himself starling slightly when the door to the morgue clicks open. In the brief second before someone enters the room, Nicky clears away the fogginess in his head, and forces himself to focus on the present. It’s with practiced skill that he schools his features into something resembling disinterest, like he’s bored at being stuck here. It’s not too far from the truth. Nicky has no doubt that he’ll be out of here soon, once he can see who’s taken him and formulate an escape plan.

The woman who walks through the door is someone he should have expected, but his blood runs cold at the sight of her, nonetheless.

“Hello again, Nicky,” greets the familiar blonde, Kozak, he thinks. There’s the barest trace of a smile on her features. Her gaze is predatory, hungry, and it takes a lot for Nicky to swallow down the panic that rises within him. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

* * *

Joe has been digging through these files for hours. It’s like a sickening trip down memory lane, being confronted with photos of Nicky through the years. He’s lingering on a photo from the seventies, where Nicky’s hair was long enough to brush along his jawline and he had a mustache that Joe had only ever found attractive on him, when Andy glances up from her own stack of photos and sighs.

“Joe,” she says, in a tone that’s alarmingly gentle.

He doesn’t look at her, he’s too busy studying the way Nicky’s hair frames his face in the photos. He remembers how it felt to run his fingers through the soft brown strands, how Nicky would lay with his head in Joe’s lap as he did so. It was the fastest way to get Nicky to relax, to brush his fingers through the man’s hair. Over the years, Joe had become a hairstylist of sorts. Nicky’s long hair was an occupational hazard at times, and Joe had gotten creative when it came to finding ways to keep it out of his eyes. Nicky had been fine throwing it in a messy bun, but playing with his hair had become almost as cathartic for Joe as it was for Nicky. Sometimes he missed the way he could tuck loose strands behind Nicky’s ear, though right now it’s hard for him to yearn for anything else but the simple comfort of Nicky’s presence.

“Joe,” Andy says again, reaching to take the photo from Joe’s shaking hands, “you’ve been looking at the same one for thirty minutes.”

Joe breathes out a harsh laugh around the emotion that’s steady clawing its way up his throat. “Someone really should have told him that mustache was a crime.”

The furrow between Andy’s brows deepens. She doesn’t laugh at his feeble attempt at a joke. Joe isn’t sure whether he actually meant for it to be funny or not. The photo is pulled away from him and returned to the pile scattered across the coffee table. He notices that the bloody baseball cap isn’t occupying the space any longer. Someone’s moved it to the still empty armchair, and it sits atop Joe’s sketchbook. For some reason, he can’t quite pull his attention away from that image.

Andy is still watching him, the file in her lap abandoned. Copley and Nile are at least pretending to be engrossed in their research. When Andy rises from the couch, tossing the manila envelope that had been full of Nicky during the twenties on top of the photo she’d just taken from Joe, he looks at her with clear confusion. They can’t stop now, it’s too soon.

“Boss-”

“Come with me,” Andy motions toward the stairs and then looks at Joe pointedly.

The protests are falling from Joe’s lips before he can stop them, “Andy. _No_. I’m fine.” He goes to reach for another collection of files, but Andy swats his hand away and gives him a hard stare. “Andy-”

“ _Joe_.” Her voice is harder now, firmer, the tone of a leader and not a friend. Andy is not a woman who uses her power lightly. Joe knows she doesn’t like to think of herself as the head of their ragtag group. For her to put so much force behind her tone, to look at him with her hands on her hips and lips pressed into a firm line, he knows this is more than a simple request.

He goes. Mainly because his respect for Andy far outweighs his ability to continue arguing with her, and also because when he stands, he realizes how much he’s shaking. It dawns on Joe that she’s trying to give him privacy before his inevitable breakdown. She gets him up the stairs, and then leads him into the bedroom she and Nile are sharing. Instead of the queen size bed that sits in he and Nicky’s room, there are two twins; he collapses on the one closest to the door, knees giving out.

All night he’s fought to keep his emotions in check, but the more his exhaustion sets in, the more Joe’s resolve fades. He’s been blinking back tears for hours, forcing himself to keep moving forward. This time when the tears come, sudden and quick, he can’t find the strength to hold them down. He cries, shoulders shaking, hands trembling, the sound of a wounded animal escaping him. He cries for Nicky, for the emptiness that sits heavy in his chest. He cries for Andy and her newly found mortality. He cries for Quynh, for Nile, for Booker even. He cries for the family he’s already lost, and for the one that’s slowly being ripped away from him.

Quynh had been the first straw. In her, Joe had found pieces of his oldest sister. His family, the one from before, is one he tries not to think about all that often. It’s painful to remember people that fade from his memory with each passing year. But when Quynh smiled, he could see the whisper Ameera. Losing her had felt like he’d lost his sister all over again. He’d drowned more times than he can count trying to find Quynh, and yet never more than what she was still going through now. He’d lost Quynh, and then Booker. His brother in arms, the man he’d fought beside for years, who’d betrayed them in the worst possible way. It hurt Joe to think about him for too long. Soon, he’d lose Andy. How long would it be until Nicky was lost to him forever? How long until Nile? Joe cries, because he doesn’t have the strength to push these thoughts away any longer.

Andy doesn’t try to console him, not at first. She stands in the doorway and waits until the worst of his sobs have subsided and then she moves to sit beside him on the bed. The mattress dips, and Joe goes right along with it, falling until he can rest his head on Andy’s shoulder. Andy is not usually the one to console him. She leans on the side of being a bit more brunt, and though she doesn’t mind physical contact, it’s not something that she often engages in. For Joe though, she seems to tolerate it. He’s thankful for her, and for the way she raises a hand to rest atop Joe’s curls. Nicky does this sometimes, when Joe’s feeling particularly overwhelmed, threads his fingers through Joe’s hair and scratches soothingly at his scalp. Andy, having watched them for nearly a millennium, must have picked up on how much the small act can comfort Joe.

“Do you need to talk about it?” Andy asks. With his head atop her shoulder, he can feel the vibrations of her voice.

He shrugs. When he blinks, more tears spill down his cheeks and fall onto Andy’s shirt, soaking into the fabric.

“We’re gonna find him Joe, you know that.” It must be the hundredth time someone has told him that tonight, like he’s going to just forget. Like he thinks they’re going to give up. Maybe because they have before, Quynh’s watery grave is a testament to that.

“I know… Just feels like we’ve been losing a lot lately.”

Andy tenses, her fingers stilling their movement against Joe’s scalp. “Yeah. It does.”

They are the only two, currently in the house, that have years of shared memories between them. It’s a jarring thought, one that Joe doesn’t want to think about too much. Instead he focuses on the feeling of Andy beside him. With his hands in his lap, he rubs his right thumb against his left palm and forces himself to pay attention to the feeling of it. He does small things that tether him to the space he’s in, instead of floating off into the thoughts that threaten to overwhelm him again.

When it finally feels like the world is righting itself, he draws in a breath and says, “thank you, by the way.”

“For what?”

“For this. For noticing.” Until Andy had drawn attention to it, he hadn’t even realized how frayed his nerves were. He’d been so consumed with Copley’s files that nothing else existed. There was the job before him, and nothing else.

Andy hums beside him, a noncommittal sort of noise. “I know how you felt about Nicky’s mustache, there’s no way you would have willingly stared at that picture for so long.”

The laugh pulled from him is genuine, and a bit of a surprise. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“He looked like a rejected member of The Beatles.”

Maybe joking about Nicky is a bit harsh given the current situation, but it does make Joe feel a bit lighter. It gives him clarity. The mustache really wasn’t that bad, Joe just hadn’t expected it to be a look Nicky would have wanted. It had also been a nuisance whenever he kissed Nicky, though Joe supposes he can’t fault him too much for that, not with his own healthy growth of facial hair now.

He takes in the comfort of Andy’s presence for just a bit longer, and then sits up enough that he’s no longer leaning against her for support. Her hand, that was in his hair, falls to his shoulder; this is what he’s familiar with. Andy has usually always communicated with him through reassuring squeezes to his shoulder, and pats on the back. They sit in a comfortable silence while Joe wipes the tears from his cheeks and takes a few breaths to get his breathing to go back to normal.

When Andy speaks again, her tone has shifted to sound a bit more serious. “I know how it feels. The hopelessness.”

Joe’s far from dense, he knows exactly what and _who_ Andy is talking about. He knows how painful it is for her to think about Quynh at all, especially recently, with Nile still jolting awake from nightmares of water in her lungs and screams that go unheard.

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to. I need you to know, Joe, that you’re not alone.”

“I know that, Andy.”

“I know it’s not the same. And we _will_ find him. I promise-.”

“Andy,” he cuts her off, because his heart is starting to pick up speed again, and he doesn’t like thinking about Quynh and Nicky as being in the same sphere. Quynh was stuck in a place that they had no way of getting to, Nicky was still in Italy, he had to be. “I know, okay? It’s alright. I’m okay. I just-… I just need to get back to looking for him.”

Andy studies him for a moment, almost like she’s looking for the signs of distress he’d been exhibiting before. When she finds nothing but solid determination, she nods.

“Okay.” There’s a familiar gentle squeeze to his shoulder, and then she’s standing back up and fixing her shirt where it’s rumpled from Joe leaning against her. She turns to head out the door, before pausing in the doorway and turning back to face him.

“We should call Booker.”

Joe’s head is already a convoluted mess of emotions, adding Booker to the mix sends a wave of feelings that he has to take a moment to process. More than anything, he’s just tired. It’s an exhaustion that runs bone deep, that he’s been carrying with him since he snapped Keane’s neck. Joe is not a killer, he’s never been fond of taking a life, but the brute that had shot Nicky in the head and had done so with an almost sadistic glee. It was easy for Joe to pin everything on Booker, to point at the man and say without a doubt that if it weren’t for him, Nicky would have never had to face Keane’s brutality to begin with. He knows that’s true, and it’s why he can’t forgive Booker, not yet. But he also knows that the Frenchman cares for them in the same way that Joe does for him. Keeping Nicky’s abduction from him, it would be the same level of cruelty that Booker had exhibited in giving them over to Copley and Merrick. That was not the man Joe wanted to be, or the man he’d ever been.

He sighs, rubs at the bridge of his nose and nods, “Okay. Yeah. Tell him.”

A small part of him wonders if Booker might have the answers. He’d kept his connection to Copley a secret, clearly he was a man who could hide well. Maybe, just maybe, he might have the lead that they were looking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Booker finally making an appearance in this fic? It's more likely than you think. 
> 
> Been thinking a lot about how Joe is probably the best brother you could ask for. He definitely gives the best hugs. Idk you guys, I just love Yusuf al-Kaysani a lot.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, i'm on tumblr @nico-di-genova. Come talk to me if you want!


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